One moment I’m posting on the Working with Women thread in the Pit. The next moment, I’m standing inches from death.
As early as last night, I decided to bike into South Miama. It’s kind of a schlep from West Kendall, but hey. It’s Saturday, I was cooped up inside all week, and I’m in the mood for some exploring. So after I got my Straightdope fix in for the morning/late afternoon, I gathered my things together and hopped on my bike.
I dropped off my library books and started on my wonderful journey. It’s a windy overcast day–looks like it’s gonna rain any minute now–but I kept on going. Maybe, I thought to myself, I’ll just ride to the closet ice cream shop and turn back. It’s hot today (upper 70s) and strawberry ice cream was on the brain.
I’m half a mile from home when I come to 147 Ave. and 104 St. I scan the marque of the little strip mall for a Baskin Robbins or something akin to it. Nada. Oh well, let’s keep going.
I come to the exit of the strip mall. There’s a giant red SUV there at the front, waiting to turn. I’m biking along but carefully scanning the same traffic the driver is. It’s pretty busy and I don’t see that he has an opening. I stop and wait for the driver to look in my direction so we can make eye contact, but his head is turned towards the traffic. Like a fool, I think, “Well, he can’t go yet. I’ll just jet out in front of him”. I’m half a second into carrying out this action when
the whole world stops.
He hits the front of the bike and I fall over into the street. Fortunately, I make no contact with the car so I’m not hurt. I can still hear the echo of my screams ringing out into the universe, though.
I drag my bike to the sidewalk. Both wheels are twisted. When I try to get the bike standing upright, it falls down. I try again. It falls again. I begin to tremble and a cold wave of nausea washes over me.
“Are you alright?!”
It’s the driver. His eyes are the size of frying pans.
I tell him I’m cool, just shaken. He starts apologizing profusely and I try to mitigate his guilt by admitting my responsibility. For one, I was on the wrong side of the street, on a side walk. And I should not have attempted to move in front of him. Stupid stupid mistakes that I know better than to commit.
But he accepted full responsibility. We exchanged numbers and names. He gave me his license plate number as insurance. A witness to the accident gave me his name and number as well. The driver offered to take me home, but I told him I didn’t live that far away. He insisted and I assured him I was fine. He told me in his broken English (boy I wish I could speak Spanish!!) that he’d have a new bike for me by the end of the day. Just wanting to get out of the horrible situation, I told him it wasn’t necessary. I could get it fixed. No, no. He said. New bike. Today.
He drove off, as did the witness. I let out a shaky sigh and pulled my bike off the grass, thinking the wheels would roll at little. But alas, they were crippled. I lifted my old friend–all forty pounds–onto my shoulder and started down the busy street. I took five steps before I almost collasped. I had to sit down on the grass for minute or so until the trembling and nausea lifted.
Unable to make the journey with the bike on my shoulder, I locked it to a bus stop sign.
All the way home, I kept thinking how lucky I was still to still be alive. I almost died! God or angels or something was definitely protecting me. But dammit if I’m not bummed out about my bike!
Before I left for graduate school, my older sister gave me her mountain bike. It was a $800 bike that she had once ridden a lot, but had now abandoned. Since she knew I was moving up to NJ without a car, this was a pretty thoughtful gift. I remember the day I got it from her, I rode from midtown Atlanta to Candler Park (a ten mile round trip). Yeah, baby! An almost brand new bike!
One night, right before my sister and I moved out of our apartment, I was riding that bike around in the parking lot when my cat Ziggy suddenly started chasing me around. Just like a dog. It’s one of my most foundest memories of my cat, who is now gone.
The bike frame was originally black, but I painted it baby blue. I also painted rainbow swirls on the rims. It was the hippiest tricked-out bike ever, and I felt it belonged to me.
I don’t know what I would have done without my bike those first two years of grad school. I would it ride it to and from school, a ten mile commute that took me through the slums of Newark and the exhausting foothills of the Wachtung. I strapped a blue milkcrate to the rack and used it to carry books and groceries. When the weather was bad, I would ride my bike down to the South Orange train station. I could get there in ten minutes by bike, thirty on foot.
When I came home after that first year, my calves and thighs were huge. I was both proud and horrified by the muscular thing I had become.
When I finally got a car, I wasn’t so dependent on my bike. I would occassionally ride to the train station when I went to the city on the weekends, but more often than not I would just walk or drive. But a few times I took my bike into the city with me. I remember carrying him up the escalator of the WTC. I went all the way into the Bronx and then turned back. Another time I rode my bike to a bar in the Bowery once, when I was meeting friends from another message board. I still remember how cool I felt speeding down the street that night. I took my bike across the Brooklyn Bridge and we did a tour of Prospect Park together. My bike helped me fall in love with NYC.
This past summer, when I was suffering from I-have-a-Ph.D-but-I-ain’t-got-no-job blues, I took my bike out almost every day. We went to South Mountain Reservation and rode all throughout Maplewood and South Orange. I bought an odometer and I had fun racking up all kinds of miles on it.
Then I got a job in South Florida, the land of zero topography. My bike and I rejoiced. Even still, I didn’t ride my bike as often as I would have liked to. The last time I rode him (besides today) was four weeks ago, when I went camping.
And now, it’s parked on a busy street with crippled wheels, begging for me to take him home.
sigh
I’m going to go back and get him. I’ll fix him up and nurse him back to health. Even if I do get another bike, it will always be second best.
If you ride a bike, please be careful.
